


In This Night - A Friend

by Evaine



Series: The Jamie and Squirt Chronicles [6]
Category: Guns N' Roses, Metallica
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaine/pseuds/Evaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 1992. Alone in his hotel room after the accident Lars searches in vain for peace. There's a knock at the door. Can a friend help?  (Written: April 2005)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Night - A Friend

I paced in the dark. I’d tried sleeping; couldn’t do it. I’d tried reading; I stared at the same sentence for fifteen minutes without understanding a word of it. I’d tried drinking; the glass of vodka sat on the table, barely touched. So I paced. It was better than putting a hole through the wall. The hotel people wouldn’t like that too much.

A gentle rapping on the door stopped my strides mid-room. I swore. What did Jason want this time?

“What the fuck…!” I flung open the door ready to blast him.

“How’s things?” He sauntered into the room, all loose limbs and angles, the ever-present cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. In his hand was a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey.

“I thought you were Jason.” I closed the door behind him and flicked on the lamp on the nearby dresser.

“Nope, just me.” He grinned, that wide, open grin that could disarm anyone in an instant. I couldn’t help but grin back, albeit weakly. “How’s James?” He spoke around the cigarette, the white cylinder bobbing as his lips moved.

“He’ll be okay.” I sank to the edge of the bed and studied my bare feet. “It was pretty bad, Duff. Pretty fucking bad. He’s got third degree burns all over his hand, his arm… his face.” I scrubbed at my eyes, the image of that raw and blackened skin suddenly so vivid. I ruthlessly shoved down the huge lump in my throat and tugged needlessly on the strings at the waist of my sweat pants.

“Drink?” He held up the bottle, his expression gentle in the faint glow of the lamp. “Or I’ve got some weed if you’d rather?” He patted his shirt pocket with his other hand. Good old Duff, prepared for anything. I gave a half shrug and nodded.

He set the bottle on the table next to my untouched glass of vodka and sank into one of the two chairs flanking it. His nimble fingers made short work of rolling the joint as I watched. His hands reminded me of James’ hands. Large and loose-jointed with long fingers – both men favoured large, chunky silver rings, and both men could make the strings of their chosen guitars sing. I bit my lip, hard. James would play again. He would be fine. I had to believe that.

“Relax, Lars.” Duff passed me the lit joint, his dark eyes understanding under the mess of blond bangs. “You said he’d be okay. Think on that.”

“Yeah.” I nodded.

We smoked the joint in silence, passing it back and forth between us. It was good stuff – Duff always had the best – and it didn’t take long before I felt the pleasant lethargy of a good stone begin to wind its way through me.

“I didn’t figure you’d come back to the hotel tonight,” Duff said, twisting open the cap of his bottle. His eyebrow rose in query and I nodded.

“They kicked me out of the hospital,” I admitted with a chuckle. He grabbed two of the empty glasses from the back of the table and filled them halfway.

“They kicked you out? Man, that’s cold.” He shook his head and handed me my glass.

“Well, I wouldn’t stop yelling at everyone,” I explained, unable to keep the rueful grin from my face. “They told Kirk that if I didn’t stop they’d call the cops, so Kirk told Jason to bring me back here. You should’ve seen him take charge, Duff. You wouldn’t have recognised him.” I had been out of control, and I think Kirk was the only one I would have listened to at that point.

“He’s been watching you operate for years,” Duff grinned. “Hardly surprising he’s picked some of that ‘Little Hitler’ shit up.” I flipped him my middle finger and he chuckled easily. That’s what I liked about hanging with Duff, everything was laid-back and easy with him. I suppose that’s how he was able to deal with Axl every day.

“So Axl started a riot? What the fuck?” I changed the subject. I didn’t want to dwell on James lying in pain in a hospital bed any longer. There was nothing I could do about it right now anyway, as much as I wanted to.

“Fuckin’… prima… fuckin’… donna.” Duff lit a cigarette and took a long sip of his drink before launching into the story of Axl leaving the stage in the middle of the Guns performance. Stupid fucker. He could have been the hero of the night. It could have been a shining hour for him, but as usual, he’d screwed it up. I didn’t know if he really was having problems with his voice or if he was just being a shit, but that didn’t matter. The audience, already horrified and disappointed after James’ encounter with the pyro, had gone apeshit when Axl threw his hissy and walked off the stage, leaving his bandmates, his friends - his guys - standing there looking like idiots. James and I had pulled some major shit in our time, but something like that? Never. Fuck, Rose could be an asshole.

“How do you put up with it, man?” I asked. Duff shook his mane of hair and held up the bottle with a rueful quirk of his lips.

“You learn to deal,” he said simply.

“You’re a better man than I am.” I tossed back the last of my drink, wincing as a dart of white-hot pain shot from the middle of my neck and across my shoulders. The night had taken its toll on me physically as well as mentally.

“Nah, just stupider,” he scoffed, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “Turn around.” He motioned with one hand, the other lighting another cigarette. I took the dangling cigarette from his lips. What the fuck – James wasn’t around to read me the riot act. Chuckling softly, he fished out another smoke and lit it for himself. “That’s a bad habit,” he warned.

“Bite me.” I inhaled deeply, enjoying the acrid taste of the tobacco in the back of my throat.

“Later.” He grinned and gave my shoulder a little push. “Turn around and let me get those kinks out.” I could feel the warmth of his hands through the fabric of my shirt instantly. “Damn, Lars, you’re tight as one of your fucking drums!” His thumbs probed along the base of my neck and over the area between my shoulder blades.

“It’s been a fucking shit day,” I reminded him wryly, wincing again as his fingers worked at the knotted muscles. “It’s not every day you see your best friend go up in flames.” Just saying the words brought the images back, and I felt my whole body tense up even more.

“Relax a little, man,” Duff said softly. He clapped my shoulders. “Get this shirt off and I’ll get you another drink.” He slid off the bed and moved towards the table, where he refilled both our glasses. I watched him, wondering, not for the first time, how he could always be so laid back. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him riled over anything. Of course, I don’t know that I’d ever seen him without a drink or a joint handy either – and God only knew what else he put in his body.

“Hey, you know what they have on the TV here?” He returned to sit behind me on the bed, reaching around my body to hand me my drink and the ashtray.

“No. What?” I sipped at the drink, setting the ashtray off to my side.

“It’s a jazz channel, man. All jazz, all the time. New stuff, old stuff – all kinds of shit.” He leaned forward and rested his chin on my shoulder. “Wanna turn it on?”

“Sure, why not?” I shrugged. Maybe revisiting the music of my childhood would help me get rid of some of the worry and tension that was tying me up in knots.

“Cool.” He stretched across the bed, reaching for the remote control with one of his long arms. Seconds later, the sounds of early Miles Davis played softly. The sound was shit, coming out of tinny little TV speakers, but the music was pure brilliance. Some kind of video feed accompanied the music, but it wasn’t important. It was the notes, the melody, the soul of the trumpet that was paramount. Flashing me another of those easy grins, Duff rolled off the bed and turned off the light on the dresser. That was McKagan, able to make himself at home anywhere and with anyone.

“TV screen is light enough,” he replied to my raised eyebrow. “Want another cigarette?” He fished in his pocket and brought out the nearly full pack, holding it out to me. I pulled out a cylinder and placed it between my lips as he flicked his lighter to life. The flame danced over the end of the cigarette, and I closed my eyes against the sight. Flames… I fucking hated flames. James…

“Hey man, don’t go there.” Duff’s voice was gentle, as was the hand on my shoulder.

“It’s hard. I keep seeing it – over and over. Fuck, Duff…” I scrubbed at my eyes with my hand. “He was fucking on fire!”

“I know.” His hand squeezed my shoulder, trying to give me comfort. “C’mon, let me work on those shoulders,” he said after a moment. “You’ll feel better without all those knots.” I heard him set his glass on the nightstand, and saw him flick his cigarette ash into the ashtray beside me. Then his hands were both on me, stroking, kneading, working on the huge band of tightness across my upper back. Visions of flames – and James in flames – began to retreat. I raised my glass to my lips and tried to just let the sound of the music float over me, concentrating on the relief those large hands were starting to bring forth.

He had the hands of a master. His fingers sought out every last ache and kink that afflicted me. The ones brought on by my drumming, and the ones brought on by the events of the past twelve hours. There was nothing tentative about the way he pushed and coaxed at the muscles, ordering them to relax. By the time his hands lay on either side of my neck, under my hair, his thumbs working in small circular motions along my hairline, I was about as relaxed as I could ever remember being. I let my head loll forward, almost purring with contentment.

“Now, isn’t that better?” His voice was soft, almost silky. I felt the mattress move as he shifted his weight, moving closer to me.

“Much,” I murmured, tilting my head to the side, testing the rediscovered looseness of the muscles. His fingers brushed along the back of my neck as he pushed my long hair aside, and with a small moan of surprise, I felt his mouth against the tender skin where my neck met my shoulder.

“Duff?” My mouth was suddenly dry. There was an almost pleasurable churning in my gut and dammit if my dick wasn’t getting hard. Was this…?

“Lars.” His tongue licked slowly up the side of my neck, his hands still on my shoulders. My fingers gripped the almost-empty glass tightly. “Wanna?” The single word came from between his lips, low and hot, right beside my ear. I raised my glass and tossed off the last of the whiskey before resting my head back against his shoulder and meeting his half-hooded gaze.

Decisions. Some are made in the blink of an eye. No thought, just reaction. Some are made after hours and hours of musing, turning options over in your mind, searching for flaws, weighing the pros and cons. And sometimes, there’s no decision to be made. You know what you want and you go for it. I wanted to stop seeing flames. I wanted to stop seeing raw, burnt skin. I wanted to stop seeing frightened blue eyes, lips thin and white with pain as they stoically refused to let the screams past them… I wanted to stop seeing James laying in the hospital bed, and me unable to do anything to help. I wanted simply to forget.

“Yeah.” The word was barely out of my mouth when his lips covered mine. I know I moaned as his tongue teased along the side of mine; first one side then the other, coaxing me to respond. It seemed I didn’t need much coaxing; my own tongue was already twined about his, rubbing, stroking exploring the hot recesses of his mouth. His lips were alternately soft and firm, one moment gently caressing, the next aggressively demanding. My head spun, and it wasn’t the booze or the weed that caused it. It was him. He tasted of smoke, whiskey and something tangy… himself? It was a flavour that excited me, whatever it was. I felt his hand trail along the edge of my jaw, feather-light, and that’s when I tossed my empty glass over the side of the bed, and reached up to tangle my hand in his hair.

He kissed me until I couldn’t think any longer. Yeah, he was that good - even better than that good. Seldom had I been kissed cross-eyed.

“Hold on.” He gasped, raising his head. “We gotta get out of these fucking clothes.” The grin he gave me was boyishly sexy, and my dick jumped in response. How the fuck had I missed this all those nights we spent getting wasted together? I set my fingers to undoing the buttons of his shirt. It didn’t take long, he only had the bottom two done up in true Duff McKagan fashion. His skin was hot beneath my hands. Damn it, how fucking blind had I been?

He stood between my feet, at the bottom of the bed, having just tossed my sweat pants over his shoulder, his long, naked form silhouetted by the light from the TV screen. His eyebrows rose slightly in question as he put one knee on the bed. He placed his hands – those large, gentle hands – around my ankles, and slowly ran them up my legs as he climbed fully onto the bed. I closed my eyes and let myself feel just his touch. His hands moved over my hips and up my sides as he slowly stretched out to lie on top of me. The weight of him felt good… comforting. He pressed his lips to the hollow of my throat for a moment before they opened, and his tongue slipped between them to taste my skin. A sigh that was almost a moan escaped me.

“You taste good,” he murmured against my skin. “You feel good.” His lips moved up the side of my neck, nibbling, sending little electric shocks directly down to my cock. I arched against him and groaned as the head of my dick brushed against his. The hand that I had buried in his hair clenched, even as my other hand dug into the skin of his back. His teeth sank deeper in response, a soft, low growl coming from deep inside him.

“God… I want you,” I murmured, curling around him as he tangled his limbs with mine. If I could have climbed inside his skin I would have. That lean frame, the bold hands, the devastating mouth all represented oblivion to me.

“I was hoping you would.” His mouth was beside my ear now, lips brushing against it as he spoke, igniting that sinking, curling heat deep in my belly. His tongue flicked out and ran along the curve of my ear, and I was lost, overcome with a frantic, gut-wrenching lust that consumed me.

Reality dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensations: touch, taste, smell, hearing, sight; all melded together into one perfect sense. The feel of his body as I explored it with my hands, the roughness of the hair on his forearms, the soft smoothness of gently rounded ass cheeks. The taste of his mouth, the flavour of his sweat-covered skin as I dragged my tongue over his chest, sucking first on one nipple then the other. The smell of him… male, musky… smoky… ready…. His soft gasps and moans in an almost musical contrast with his growls and groans as I lavished attention on different parts of his body. The glow of his eyes, eyes filled with heat reflected by the flickering light of the TV; the sheen of sweat I licked from his upper lip; the flash of the gold he wore at his ear and the silver around my wrist, glittering as my hand ran over his flat belly. The taste of his cock in my mouth, the feel of his hands tugging on my hair, the scent of sex heavy in the air between us, the low rumbling growl as I pushed my dick slowly into him, nearly exploding at the tightness. Heavy breathing harmonizing in rhythm with each stroke of my cock as I moved in and out of him, slowly at first, then with more and more urgency. The rigid heaviness of his cock in my hand, the coarseness of the hair surrounding his balls, the sound of skin meeting skin, the euphoria of orgasm taking us at very nearly the same moment – it was all mingled together in a single, massive tide of sensations, filling my mind, and flooding every corner of thought I was capable of.

“Sleep now.” His voice murmured softly as his arm pulled me closer to him. A long leg flopped over mine as I curled, spent, into the curve of his body. He was warm and solid against my back, and by the time he had pulled the covers up to my shoulders, I was already pleasantly floating near the edge of sleep. I felt him brush his lips against the back of my head, and with a contented smile, I drifted off.

*~*~*~*

“Duff?” I looked at him over the rim of my coffee cup. Thanks to him, I’d made it through the night without completely losing it, and was now pretty much back to my taking-care-of-business self.

“Yeah?” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the café table, the ever-present cigarette hanging from his fingertips. There was a smile in the depths of his dark eyes as he looked at me; a smile I knew was reflected in my own eyes. We’d had another go round this morning, slow and lazy, as the sun crept through the blinds, waking us.

“Thanks.” I took a large, satisfying gulp of coffee. “Thanks for the um…” I grinned. “… Company.” I had called Kirk at the hospital before coming downstairs. James was doing better; they’d given him something to help him sleep through the night, aside from the painkillers. He’d been awake, and I could hear him mumbling something about “goddamned mutherfucking hospital gowns” in the background. James was cranky; everything would be fine. As soon as Jason made an appearance, we would head over to the hospital, and I’d make sure everything was running smoothly.

“It’s what friends do,” Duff said simply.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to my super beta - Lisa! And to Joolz and Lia for giving me the thumbs up. And the gang in chat for obsessing with me over a title - as you can see... I still didn't find the right one. Still liking 'When Friends Fry' though...


End file.
